


Acceso

by rukafais



Series: an endless song [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 04:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: meaning: Ignited, on fire.The songs that unfurl so wonderfully from his musician’s clever hands makes his heart beat wildly in his chest - it makes him want to push himself beyond his carefully planned limits - and he has to wonder if it’s something deeper that fuels that flame in him.He has never asked.  He is certain that he should not.Brumm would do anything his master wanted, after all.





	Acceso

There is always a divide between what is shown and what is felt, what is said and what is meant. A mask for the crowd, a mask for the show. It is a necessary task to perform without pouring everything of yourself into it; otherwise, burning out and failing would be inevitable.

It’s always something he’s held to; he cannot exhaust himself before the end, after all. It’s unlikely that he would in the first place - he is durable, as all of his kind is, and every incarnation and every vessel for the flame has never fallen before their time came - but it never hurts to be cautious.

The Troupe Master takes stock of his own capabilities and limits with meticulous care that would surprise anyone who never looked beyond the mask of the wild performer he wears; he makes certain not to overstretch. Every jump and spin, every step of the dance, every trick and flourish; all of it is practiced and planned. He has it down to an art.

When the music starts, when it _soars,_ it becomes increasingly hard to think of his routines; it becomes hard to think of much at all except the wild urge to _burn_ , to fill his veins with fire and leave the audience holding their breath in anticipation as he brings himself ever closer to danger. A moth daring to court the flame that will consume it.

He reins it in and holds it tight and sends fire dancing across his fingers, arcing through the air to thrill the crowd; he soaks up the adoration and adulation of the audience as a performer taking pride in his own work; he laughs and thanks them for their attention and their time.

( _It comes rarely; he must listen for it. But when he hears that minute shift in the song that means his musician is no longer just focused on playing but on his master’s dance, he could be performing to an empty room and not care in the least._ )

The thing that grips his heart so tightly is a simmering, fervent feeling, no less intense for how quietly it began. The Troupe Master sees no reason to deny naming it; he cannot undo such things, nor reverse them so they no longer exist. Whether he leaves it or acknowledges it, it will only continue to burn.

He stands in the dark and listens to his musician’s patient practice, those soft and straining notes that he has the privilege of hearing, and his smile is rueful and soft and he is left entirely unmasked.

It is love, of course. But though love is not forbidden for him, for his breed, for the Troupe -

he cannot ask it of Brumm, so loyal, so eager to please in his own soft-spoken way, who - regardless of his own feelings - would want to give his master everything he has. It must be given willingly, if it ever comes to pass at all.

 _And if it does not come to pass, what then?_ his mind echoes back at him, and he does not answer.

(If it does not come to pass, then it will be consumed when he is, and Brumm will be none the wiser.)

 

* * *

 

When his hands are idle and he’s practiced enough, he finds himself in need of something to occupy his mind. He paces back and forth like a beast caged, cape fluttering and twisting in a wind that does not exist. Silence that he once found relaxing now seems to make the time stretch on infinitely.

He hums quietly, attempting to fill the void. Songs from his memory that he has collected over the many, many years he’s been alive; songs passed down from incarnations since consumed by flame, remembered only by the god that slumbers in the Nightmare’s Heart. Flickers of different lands and different kingdoms, past scorched clean by fire so that something else can grow from the ashes.

It is still not enough to quiet his sudden bout of restlessness.

He closes his eyes, he sings - a god’s memories flowing into the vessel he created - and listens to a voice that is his and not his at the same time. Whether it’s one song or many, he doesn’t know; it is an endless river of flame with no beginning and no end.

He hears movement and cracks open an eye to find he has an audience. He stops mid-note.

“Ah, my friend. You’ve returned, I see.”

Brumm says nothing, which...well, it’s usual for him, actually, but this time it’s different. It feels more that he’s been rendered speechless, rather than just being his normal taciturn self.

It’s ( _charming_ ) amusing.

“Oh? Nothing to say? Was I really that terrible?”

He smiles crookedly at his musician; he doesn’t really expect an answer. There is, as always, a choice. If Brumm doesn’t want to answer (or can’t) then he’ll let it lie and move on as if nothing had happened.

“No,” Brumm blurts out hastily, a second after he asks the question. “It isn’t...It’s not...”

Grimm tries not to change his expression as the musician works his way through whatever he’s trying to say, because he’s certain that would make him throw it all out completely, but it’s...

Oh, it is _cute._ Brumm is so utterly, _terribly_ flustered and it is _cute._

“I did not know...you could sing. Like that. Or at all...Mrm. Master.”

Grimm is very tempted to lean in, to tease more of those reactions out of him, because that’s almost a stutter (and isn’t that something, his musician speaking enough for a stutter to be noticeable - he’s taciturn as is and only becomes more so when confronted with difficulty, and on some days him speaking at all is a surprise), but he stops himself.

It would be cruel to continue interrupting his musician when he has such difficulty speaking already, solely for his own amusement. There are some things he shouldn’t do.

“It is not something I normally advertise, no,” he says calmly, turning to make proper eye contact with Brumm. “It is something to pass time, when I have little else to do and nothing to listen to.”

“Not that I intend to ask you play for me all the time, of course,” he corrects, after a moment. “That would be taking advantage of you, I feel. It is simply to keep myself busy.”

He hears his musician breathe in a little too loudly, a little too shakily, behind his mask - which is curious. He doesn’t _think_ he’s said anything to elicit such a reaction...

“Is something the matter, my friend? Feel free to speak your mind.”

“I..” Brumm coughs and looks down and away, breaking eye contact, and Grimm would have raised an eyebrow if he was capable of it. Instead, his head tilts ever so slightly to the side. “Mrm, I. I just thought...”

The words are slow to come. Grimm waits patiently.

“I thought it-it would be, disappointing. Nn...not to hear your singing again. Master. If you only do it while I am away.”

It’s not the response he expected. (He’s not quite sure what response he expected.) The surprise shows on his face, he’s sure; he lets it.

“That’s unusually bold of you to say, my friend,” he remarks, and Brumm steadfastly keeps his eyes fixed on the floor rather than him.

“You asked me to speak my mind,” the musician mumbles, and looks up, clearly startled, when Grimm answers it with a laugh.

“I did, yes! And where, _when_ , did I ever say,” and here the Troupe Master leans in almost close enough to touch and takes Brumm by the hand, pulls him to his feet in one swift motion, “that I _disliked_ your answer?”

“In fact,” he continues, “I quite like it. I like it very much indeed.”

His musician’s heart skips and flutters and he can’t help but notice, now that they’re so close.

(He does not try to read anything more from it.  
  
He has this effect on bugs, he knows; the ability to command their adoration and their feelings, as long as the performance lasts. This may simply be more of the same.

He will not ask. He will not coerce. He must not, will not, should not.)

“Will you dance with me, my friend? I can provide the music, for once, if you’re willing-” and his tone goes from teasing to serious, “-and you must be willing.”

There is always a choice. There must always be a choice, or he does not deserve the followers he has, those who willingly put on the mask and join him-

“Yes--yes, of course, Master-” (It is the first time he has heard Brumm’s voice pitch so interestingly like that, and he puts that aside, too.)

“Wonderful. Wonderful! Now, my dear musician,” and Grimm smiles, bright and playful and amused, above all else, at this reversal of their roles, “what song would you like to hear?”

**Author's Note:**

> grimm is also just as antsy about a potential relationship, but for a completely different reason
> 
> watch them dance around it until divine just shouts YOU'RE BOTH INTO EACH OTHER NOW KISS


End file.
